


Reservoir Fish

by lindt_barton



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Gen, i have no idea what to tag this, i highly doubt anyone would actually be looking for this, offensive language as per canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7996774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindt_barton/pseuds/lindt_barton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The opening scene of R Dogs, if they were fishermen. (The beginning of an aborted siren AU). </p><p>"You wanna know why ambergris smells so good?" that's Mr. Brown. Now he knows how to take a perfectly innocent silence and turn it into an awkward conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reservoir Fish

**Author's Note:**

> I found this... I think it's funny..?

There's a lull in the conversation. Because Mr. Pink has just said something irritatingly amoral. Probably. It's not awkward, because they're all too practised at keeping each other's company to let it be. After so many years, a silence is just when you take a sip of your pint.

"You wanna know why ambergris smells so good?" that's Mr. Brown. Now he knows how to take a perfectly innocent silence and turn it into an awkward conversation. Nobody bothers protesting, because the years of experience have also taught them that Mr. Brown is a force of weirdness that cannot be stopped, only endured.

"It's whale jizz," he continues as if he is an oracle privy to the unique truths of reality.

The reactions are these: Nice Guy Eddie chokes on his drink. Blonde chuckles. White manages to convey that his head is in his hands without that actually being the case. Pink says Jesus Christ under his breath. Joe Cabot is too busy muttering sums to himself as he charts up the day's catch to take notice of the boys. Mr. Blue appears to be asleep.

The empty chair between Mr. White and Mr. Blonde continues to be an inanimate object.

Tonight it is Mr. White who takes on Mr. Brown's challenge: "Ambergris is cut from the stomach of whale. Therefore it is produced in the stomach. Would you like to explain to me why the hell a whale would have it's own semen in it stomach?" He speaks slowly, enunciating each point individually, spelling it out with his hands.

Apparently this is exactly the question Mr. Brown wanted to hear, he leans forward conspiratorially, "The age old dilemma: spit or swallow? Spit: nothing. Swallow:" he twirls his hands as if to pluck treasure from the air itself, "ambergris." He leans back into his chair spent.

Pink adds, "I mean with a dick that big I'd want it sucked." A final sordid flourish.

"You're all missing the most important detail of this story, men." Somehow Mr. Blonde can make words smirk as well as his face. "Mr. Brown likes the smell of jizz."

Eddie shakes his head, "It's shit like that which is why I refuse to share a boat with those two fags."

Mr. Pink immediately snaps, "Hey I'm nothing to do with this jizz sniffing. He is the one spending all night moaning over whale porn."

Hands raised in defeat, Mr. Brown lays his final blow, "All I'm sayin' is they're called sperm whales for a reason."    

"You are one sick individual," Pink shakes his head as he pulls a roll up from his front pocket and leans back to light it. He plonks his feet onto the empty chair.

The noise rouses Mr. White from, based on his smiling eyes, what had been a pleasant daydream. Woken he glares murder at Mr. Pink, "Take your feet off that chair."

"What for? No one's using it. I'm giving it a purpose in life. What do you think you are my boss?"

"I think you're being disrespectful to the owners of this fine establishment who are kind enough to supply chairs and tables and warmth when all we pay for is drinks. Take your feet of the chair or I will break your legs with it."

"My feet are cleaner than any of your drunken asses,” Mr. Pink, of course, does not drink, “and the chairs are paid for with the extra profit they make from watering down the piss cheap beer you retards drink. I'm not moving my feet. I deserve it." White sets his drink down with quiet menace looking about ready to climb across the table and lay into Mr. Pink.

Joe raises a hand to the group, his calculations having interrupted by a preternatural ability to sense impending violence. He speaks a low rumble, pointing at Pink, "You, get your feet off the fucking chair, we aren't animals." Pink does so, while muttering offended excuses at a volume too low to be detected by Joe and result in a hiding from him rather than White.

Joe turns to Mr. White, "You can start handing out orders when you make up for the joke you call your day's catch." Joe motions angrily to the numbers penciled into his book, "What the fuck were you doing? Cooking a romantic dinner? It sure as hell wasn't fuckin' fishing."

White speaks in a voice to calm a bear. A bear that has been your boss for multiple decades and knows your poker face far too well, "Testing out a new spot."

"Well don't test it again. It may as well have been dry fuckin' land for all you brought back."

A stony silence falls. Joe drains untouched tumbler of whiskey in front of him and shuts his notebook. "I'm goin' to bed." He looks to Eddie and Blonde, "You two comin'?"

They both half nod, obediently and stand after draining their respective pints. Joe bids the table goodnight, "I'll see you all tomorrow." He leads the three of them out, at his usual leisurely pace, nodding to various acquaintances as he goes. The remaining men all make their own excuses and retreats. Pink and Brown, bickering about something new before they even reach the door, wander together in the same direction to their respective cabins. Mr. Blue doesn't seem to leave rather merge with the other patrons.

Mr. White is the last to the door, the only to walk alone, and the only to reach a house not warmed by a family. Tonight it seems to have an extra absence and chill.


End file.
